


As the world comes to an end (I'll be there to hold your hand)

by Halja



Category: Nibelungenlied
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 18:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18643381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halja/pseuds/Halja
Summary: - We're all going to die. -





	As the world comes to an end (I'll be there to hold your hand)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galarix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galarix/gifts).
  * A translation of [As the world comes to an end (I'll be there to hold your hand)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3550679) by [Halja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halja/pseuds/Halja). 



> A translation of an old-ish work of mine, which I didn't initially plan to translate. Yep, that's the reason behind the overlong sentences, the awkward constructions, and the messy register. I tried my best to work on these flaws and beat the original Italian into something resembling correct, non-awkward English, and I hope the result is at least enjoyable. :)

 

 

 

 

_But these problems aside I think I taught you well_

_That we won't run, and we won't run, and we won't run_

King and Lionheart, Of Monsters and Men

 

 

 

\- We’re all going to die. –

Hagen’s voice sounds like a stone slab. Grave and cold, strong and flat and colorless, ineluctable.

Once – in the beginning of their journey, but now it seems almost a lifetime ago – the edges of that stone would have been sharp and cruel, enough to cut the flesh of any hand that so much as touched it. Now, there’s neither violence nor sarcasm in his words. Not a trace of scorn or repressed anger to mar the grey, uniform surface of the slab with cracks.

Now, Hagen’s voice is just dour, hopeless and devoid of any fire, of any will to try and argue with him again. That’s what makes him shiver, in truth, not the sharp wind of Pannonia’s chilled night, sneaking even inside the thick, welcoming walls of Rüdiger’s home and behind the warm covers of his first real bed after so many days on the road – the days they marched towards Attila’s court, to the new queen of the Hunns.

Yet, Gunther feels more inclined to pretend his only problem is the cold, as he burrows deeper into the heavy covers, as he holds Hagen tighter. – You keep saying that – he says, trying to keep his voice light and free of any emotion. – You’ve been saying that since before we even left. -

Hagen’s laughter feels rough in his ear and the crook of his shoulder, sounding almost unpleasant. It’s not sweet like Kriemhild’s was, back when she was still young and she’d laugh at him and with him with no malice in it. Or Rüdiger’s daughter’s, that delicate, shining blossom his brother took a fancy to. It’s not melodious and ripe with false benevolence like Brunhild’s, either. Despite everything, and just for a moment, it’s the single most reassuring sound he’s ever heard.

He’s missed that laugh. There were only curt orders and emotionless directions and harsh scoldings, while on the road, and long silences filled with too many untold things.

Hagen’s hair brushes against his neck and tickles his skin, and Gunther feels him pull away from him, feels the hold of his arms weakening around his waist. – I wouldn’t be forced to repeat the same things so often… - he starts, and his voice turns mocking like it used to, and Gunther doesn’t know if he should be happy about it. – If you listened to me. –

\- I’d listen to you, if you were right – Gunther objects. The words roll on his tongue and between his lips too hastily, too harshly, and he stiffens under the covers even as he says them. Partly because he really does think that, and partly – just a bit – because he can’t feel the heat from Hagen’s arms against his skin anymore. Because moments like these have been precious few during their journey, and even less in the days right before their departure, and feeling him distant even _now_ makes him fear that even this is about to end, makes him think Hagen will just slip out of bed and pick up his clothes and go. And when morning comes and they join his retinue in Rüdiger’s halls, it will be as if tonight was just a dream.

But then, Hagen’s hand rests on his side – and his grip his firm but gentle, so much that he might think it a tender gesture, if that wasn’t _him_ – and Gunther’s eyes widen in the dark.

\- You still think Kriemhild won’t harm you – says Hagen, and if there was even a hint of sarcasm in his voice, Gunther would grab his wrist between his fingers and push his hand away. Yet, for once it seems like it’s really just an observation, not a reprimand, and – but maybe he’s just imagined that – there’s something almost _sad_ in his voice. Gunther doesn’t know how to answer that, so he keeps silent as the other man’s fingertips press so very lightly on his skin, caress it gently, paint invisible circles and lines on it.

He keeps silent, and shivers at the touch of Hagen’s cold fingers, cold but lighting fire all over his skin, and holds a sigh between his closed lips. He keeps silent and stares at Hagen for a long moment, trying to guess at the shapes of his strong body in the darkness, in the weak gleam of pale moonlight tracing the outlines of his face and neck and shoulders and keeping him from disappearing into the shadows that fill the room.

Then, as Hagen’s hand slips lower, almost touching the hem of his shirt, he tries to tell him: - She’s my _sister._ – He’d like his voice to sound more confident, not that weak, not trembling in such a manner as to make him feel foolish and frail under the nails scraping over his skin.

Hagen laughs again – and he presses his lips against Gunther’s own before Gunther can get offended and reply with the very first words he feels itching on the tip of his tongue.

\- You believe she doesn’t hold a grudge against you, too? -  Hagen asks him, breathing the question on his mouth, his breath hot on his face. – Against you, Gernot, Giselher? –

Gunther grips the covers in his fists and bites the inside of his cheek. – It was _you_ who… - he starts, because he can feel a flame growing inside his chest, growing until it fills it to the brink and shakes it and chokes it, burning violently. Then, a bitter taste like ash in his mouth, trapped between his teeth and sticking to the back of his throat. And then, suddenly, he realizes _what_ he’s saying, and stops talking.

Hagen’s hand still sneaks under his shirt, swift and light as if Gunther didn’t even say anything. It brushes his stomach, feeling his flesh, and runs up his abdomen, scratching it gently and pressing fingertips on it, tracing the lines of his muscles, travelling over his chest until Hagen gets to hear him sigh and groan softly.

For a moment, Gunther hopes he either didn’t hear him or he doesn’t care, as Hagen’s fingers circle an areola and tease it with a nail before they close around the nipple, squeezing it lightly and stroking the tip until it hardens and reddens, until Gunther starts to pant. He hopes and he deludes himself, as he opens his mouth and gasps loudly and searches for Hagen’s chest with his hand, to feel him solid and warm against his palm, and he knows _perfectly well_ that he’s just deluding himself.

\- Then, give me to her – Hagen says, but he doesn’t allow him to answer the challenge he hears in his harsh, mocking voice when he presses his mouth on Gunther’s once more, picking moans and whimpers from his lips, licking them and nipping at them as his fingers pull and squeeze his flesh more vigorously, less carefully. When they both pull back again, and Gunther pants and struggles vainly to catch his breath, he adds: - Just know that it won’t be of any use to you or your brothers. –

Gunther simply shakes his head because he doesn’t know where to find his voice, between his broken breath and the incoherent noises that keep escaping his mouth as he can’t hold them back. Between the burning pleasure that heats up his body and makes him sweat under the heavy covers, and the sheer impossibility of answering such a suggestion. An absurd, nonsensical suggestion that makes a shiver run down his spine and the blood boil in his veins.

 _My sister forgave us,_ he wants to assure Hagen, and then he’d hold him nearer to himself, but as Hagen’s hand leaves his flesh and starts moving lower – running down his chest, feeling his stomach, touching his side, until finally it rests on his groin and runs fingers through the hair that coats it – he can only tremble and ask him: - Why did you come with us? –

It is a foolish question, Gunther realizes that when Hagen’s hand hesitates over his groin and stops there, just a little _too high._ He smothers a curse between his teeth, and lets out a breath.

Because Kriemhild invited Gunther along with his brothers and their whole retinue to her new kingdom, and Hagen would have forgone his honor, had he not left with them. Because they called him a coward, because they challenged him to stay back in Burgundy, because they accused him of being they cause of all their problems, because…

Hagen’s hand stays where it is, but the other one jumps up to cover Gunther’s, which is still laying across Hagen’s chest, fingers intertwining with his own. Then, he slowly drags it up to touch Hagen’s shoulder, his neck, his chin, his lips.

Only when Gunther’s hand rests on Hagen’s eye – or rather what’s left of it, the empty skin and the cloth covering it up, soft under his fingers – Hagen’s hand drops between Gunther’s legs again, and takes a hold of his member, gripping the hot flesh and feeling it and stroking it, making it quiver between his fingers.

There’s a moment – a fleeting moment of clarity as he pants and seals his lips to hold back a shout, as Hagen’s fingertips run over him from tip to root and back until he’s touching his testes, and he moans again and again – when Gunther thinks back to Wasgenstein, to what Hagen did for him that one time, and all the other times that followed. As he briefly fondles the cloth, brushing over it and trying to be gentle, he thinks of disfigured skin and torn petals dipped in blood, and of oaths of loyalty never betrayed. Never, despite everything.

And as he thinks of all that, he _understands_. Understands that, whatever happens in Attila’s court, Hagen will be there with him, because it can’t be otherwise. And he understands _he_ will be there at Hagen’s side, because it can’t be otherwise. He understands, and he squeezes his eyes shut, and something shudders and shakes deep in his chest, rising and dropping down again to the frenzied rhythm of his breath. Burning heat slowly simmers up inside his belly.

Gunther moves his hand higher, lets his fingers lose themselves and catch in Hagen’s hair, and he sinks his face in the crook of his shoulder. Then, he can’t think anymore, but he cries out against his skin and kisses it and bites at it while Hagen grasps his side and pulls Gunther even closer to himself, flush against his chest, and moves his fingers faster and harder on his flesh.

He can’t think anymore, and he swears to himself that he won’t do it again till morning comes, till the sun chases away the shadows of the night and the two of them start arguing again.

 

 

 

 


End file.
